The soft amber glow of sunrise filtered through the stained glass high above the temple's sanctuary, casting dappled light across the marble floor. Incense clung faintly to the air, masked beneath the sharper, cleaner scent of healing salves and poultices. The quiet was a welcome change. Almost sacred.
I sat at Eiran's bedside, his hand resting in mine. It was rough and worn — the burns had healed strangely, the flesh beneath mottled but alive. Warm.
He stirred.
Not the vague, unconscious twitching of days past. No — this time, his fingers gripped mine. Weak, uncertain, but intentional.
"Eiran?" I whispered, leaning in, afraid to hope. "Hey… you in there?"
His brow furrowed, and his eyes cracked open, pupils slow to adjust. His lips parted, and when he spoke, his voice was a rasp of gravel and smoke.
"…'Ralia?"
A flood of relief crashed through me. I tried not to cry.
"You idiot," I said, choking on a laugh. "You're the dumbest, most reckless, most impossible person I've ever met."
He blinked slowly. "You're… okay."
"I should be saying that to you," I replied, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. "You were barely breathing. We didn't know if—if you were going to make it."
"I did something," he muttered. "Something… dangerous."
"Yeah. No kidding." I tried to keep my tone light, but my grip on his hand tightened. "You stormed a manor full of cultists and a vampire like some vengeful god. And scared me half to death in the process."
His gaze drifted — to the ceiling, to some place far away. "I heard you scream."
I hesitated. "You… did?"
"I lost control. Everything blurred. I don't even remember how I got here."
I didn't tell him. Not yet. Not about the shadowed figure. Not about the bargain.
He didn't need to carry that weight right now.
Instead, I leaned in, forehead against his. "You found me. That's all that matters."
We stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just being.
Eventually, he whispered, "You stayed."
"Of course I did."
His thumb brushed against mine. His voice dropped, barely audible. "I was scared."
"I know," I said, my throat tight. "Me too."
And for the first time in days, the silence between us felt peaceful.
Together. Whole. If only for now.
Eiran's strength returned in fits and starts. Healers came twice a day with poultices and light-infused water, muttering prayers to gods neither of us had ever spoken to. His burns slowly faded into scarred whorls, and his bones, once exposed and brittle, were hidden again beneath stubborn flesh. But the tiredness in his eyes never left. It clung to him like ash.
We spent long hours together. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't.
He told me about the visions — strange, divine dreams of ancient beings wrapped in shadow and flame. Of their voices, layered like thunder. I didn't tell him that I'd bargained with a shadow of my own. That one of those ancient gods might be listening still. Watching.
He didn't need to know. Not yet.
Instead, I told him about the child — how she was safe, staying with the temple's caretakers. She hadn't spoken since the manor. Not once. But he held tight to a piece of torn fabric from my cloak like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.
"You saved her," he said once, his voice almost a whisper.
"We saved each other," I replied.
As the days passed, Eiran tried to stand, to walk, to test the limits of what his body could now endure. The healers scolded him relentlessly. He ignored them with equal persistence.
"You're going to rip something open," I warned one afternoon as I steadied him.
"Worth it," he grunted, teeth gritted. "I'm tired of lying down."
I couldn't help but smile. He was always like this — reckless, defiant, beautifully stubborn. It made me want to scream. It made me want to hold him.
And I did. Once, when he finally collapsed from overexertion and I caught him, trembling. I held him against me and didn't let go.
That night, I asked the priests if I could stay in his room.
"Just to make sure he doesn't try to escape through the window," I added dryly.
The old priest — a silver-robed man with sharp cheekbones and empty patience — offered me a tight-lipped smile.
"I'm afraid our rooms are separated by the rites of sanctity," he said. "No cohabitation under the temple roof. Not between the unbound."
"…The unbound?" I echoed.
He gestured to my hands. "You wear no rings. No blessings. You are not joined. Thus, you must sleep apart."
I stared at him. "He nearly died."
"He still lives."
I felt Eiran's presence behind me before I heard his voice. "It's fine, Ralia."
But it wasn't. Not really. Not when we'd just clawed each other back from the brink. Not when I still woke in the night reaching for him.
The priest's decision wasn't cruel — it was custom. But in that moment, it felt like another wall. Another rule between us and peace.